The Diagnosis

We do everything but name the disease.
My mother wants to know if it is curable
and the words begin to bounce off the walls:
nerves, muscles, breath, stop
muscles, nerves, stop, breath.
She knows this silence
so she just looks at me and will not let go.
Back on the street, a sudden gale so strong
I can barely push my mother’s wheelchair up the hill.
A tug-of-war, perhaps, in reverse
as I imagine trying to deliver my mother
but her wheelchair knocks me down and this time
there is nothing I can do to save her.